


The secret of Luthien

by Valxyri



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Gen, Girl Power, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valxyri/pseuds/Valxyri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a mysterious ailment threatens the life of King Elessar and the only hope of saving his life is locked away in a place abandoned by all but the ghosts of the past</p>
            </blockquote>





	The secret of Luthien

The sun rose, late, as she was want to in the deep of winter, casting her long fingers across the graying Pelenor. Pale vapors rose off the river, shrouding the white city under a dense layer of fog.  
The stillness of the morning was broken by Queen Arwen screaming for the guard, a desperate shriek, completely at odds with her normal demeanor. A flock of pigeons fluttered, from high atop the citadel. And a troupe of men bearing the sign of the white tree tramped through the halls of the palace.   
Faramir burst through the doors to the royal bedchamber, sword already drawn. The apartment was sparsely furnished in austere Gondorian style, all white marble and heavy oaken beams. He cast about for danger as his men spilled through behind him.  
“Lady Arwen?” he called when he did not immediately see her, “My lord Elessar?”  
“Farami-“she answered, her voice roughened from the force of her scream. The steward followed her voice out onto the terrace, pushing aside leaded windows, and stepping out into the morning.  
Arwen knelt on the flagstones, supporting her husband’s weight with her body, her hair falling down to hide both of their faces. The King lay against Arwen’s chest, long legs convulsing uselessly on the stone, his head tucked into the crook of her neck. Her delicate hands clutched at the fabric of his bathrobe. The coals from his pipe scattered across the pavement, wisps of smoke curling in the wind.  
“Healers!” she ordered through a veil of dark hair, “he’s alive! Call the healers!”  
“You heard her!” Faramir snapped at the men who had followed him, falling to his knees beside his king.  
“What happened?” he asked, burying his fingers in the warm mass of dark hair to feel for a pulse.  
“He just collapsed.” Arwen’s voice was shaky and hoarse.  
Aragorn’s breath was coming in short, rough gasps, his eyes, half open, were rolled back and there were flecks of blood on his lips.   
“Gerould, Derero,” he called two of his men, “Get him onto the bed.”  
The queen surrendered her husband’s limp weight to the two strapping guards. She watched his face as Faramir pulled her to her feet.  
“Tell me exactly what happened.” He said guiding her inside, holding her shoulders.   
“He was outside,” she pulled a section of her skirt through her hands nervously, “he started to choke, I came out too see if he was well and he just…”  
“It’s all right,” He tried to steer her towards the couch in the corner, but Arwen waved his hands aside and went and sat on the edge of the bed across from Faramir.   
“What’s wrong with him?” she looked up at the steward with round, dark eyes.   
“I don’t know.” He undid the tie at the waist of the king’s gown, sliding one hand under the lapelle to feel his heart through the thin silk of his nightshirt.   
“Is- is it a human thing?” Arwen asked hesitantly, following Faramir’s movements as if the answer to her husband’s sudden illness would show itself in his anatomy.   
“I don-“ Aragorn jerked his head as Faramir felt at his nostrils for breath. The king made a sound of protest, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling away from his touch.  
“A-wen?” he grunted, grey eyes wandering around the ceiling, then fixing on her face. “What happe-“ he attempted to sit up, but an expression of pain stopped him halfway there.  
“Easy.” Faramir pushed him back into the coverlet. Aragorn threw his arm across his mouth, hacking into his sleeve.   
Arwen watched him struggle to find breath, completely at a loss for what to do. She had lost many dear friends over the years, tragically, violently, but sickness always seemed so alien. Humans were very fragile creatures; bursts of light that burn and fade. When the coughing subsided Aragorn moved his arm from his mouth to lay his hand across his eyes. Feeling helpless, Arwen took her husband’s free hand, clinging to his wrist like a lifeline.   
“What happened?” he asked again.  
“You collapsed.” Arwen moistened her lips. Aragorn picked up his hand, frowning into the crook of his elbow, there was blood on the sleeve. She pretended she hadn’t seen it. “We called for the healers; it’s going to be fine.” Arwen smiled to reassure herself, but it had no depth.   
Aragorn reached up a hand to cradle her face in. Her eyes were bright with fear, her cheek creamy and pale as fresh snow on mallorn leaves. On the far side of the bed he heard his Steward stand and exit the room. The king watched Faramir leave, presumably to meet the healers, he sighed inaudibly when the door shut.  
He turned his hand to lace her fingers between his own.  
“I’m getting old.” Aragorn spoke in a low whisper, studying Arwen’s face. There was a pallor to his cheeks, hollows in his eyes which had not been there a week ago. Grey hairs at his temples and in his beard formed distinguished streaks and fine lines crossed his cheeks. He was weary with pain and disoriented by waves of vertigo.  
“Don’t say that.” Arwen hissed, shaking her head. She clutched his hand to her chest and leaned in to touch her lips to his brow. “You’re not allowed to get old.” She embraced him gingerly, careful not to put weight on his chest. Aragorn pulled her closer and she eagerly buried her face in his hair inhaling the scent of petricor and pipe weed, after all these years, he still smelled like a ranger.   
His body was hot, feverish and he shivered with chills. She found herself clinging to him in fear. She was overwhelmed by the delicate state of mortality. He could die, without glory or battle; he could just vanish into the long night without a moment’s notice. She caught a sob in her throat.  
“Hey,” he stroked down her hair in a gesture of comfort, “I’ll do my best.” He leaned a cheek on her dark tresses, savoring the smell of elf. There was a tickle in his throat and he had to push her away to cough. But this time the fit did not subside, he clapped a hand over his mouth, gesturing inarticulately for the chamber pot.   
Arwen thanked the Valar that it was clean as she handed it to him. She gathered back his hair as he retched watery nothing swirled with dark blood.   
The door opened and a Ioreth, shorter and rounder than ever, bustled in carrying a large bag and followed closely by Faramir.   
“Oh dear me, my lord Elassar but you do look a wreck.” She clucked in disapproval, setting the bag on the ground.   
“Thank you.” Aragorn gasped weakly into the swirling mess.  
“All done?” The healer took the pot, frowning at its contents in disapproval, and handed it to Arwen, “Be a dear and clean that up.” The queen took the pot of sick obediently, cringing only slightly at the smell and hurried it into the washroom.   
Faramir grabbed a heavy wooden chair from the desk by the window and dragged it beside the bed for Ioreth to sit while she worked. She removed a listening device from the bag which she held to his chest.   
“Inhale… and out.” Aragorn coughed violently and Ioreth frowned with deep concern.  
“Let me see your eyes.” She ordered, the king looked up at her, blinking and struggling to focus.  
“What have you eaten in the last eight hours?” she asked Aragorn, her cheerful tone replaced with one which was deadly serious.   
“Nothing.” He answered her, grey eyes fixed on Arwen who was standing quietly by the door to the washroom. His expression was helpless and apologetic. “Not sense last night.” He forced himself to look away from his wife.   
“Why?” Faramir asked, “Do you know what’s wrong?”   
“I’m not sure… but,” Ioreth glanced up, at Arwen, and then at Faramir, “if you haven’t eaten than it isn’t toxin… I fear it may be the caelnothlir.”   
“That’s impossible…” Aragorn shook his head, lying back in exhaustion as the world seemed to tip and fade around him.  
The queen frowned deeply, Faramir looked between the two women in confusion, “I don’t understand…”   
“This is no common ailment, my lord.” Ioreth told him in a stern tone.  
“It’s not the Cae-“ Aragorn slapped a hand over his mouth, Arwen was instantly beside him as he gagged on blood and spat into the pot. She clutched his arm, chewing her lip in fear. “I know that for certain.”  
The door opened and a guard stuck his head inside, Faramir hurried to speak to him, they exchanged a few words, the guard stole a worried glance over the Steward’s shoulder and was immediately sent away.   
“The delegation from the mountain just arrived.” He informed the king as he returned “what should I tell them?”  
“I’ll be up in a min-“ Aragorn made to sit up, but only made it halfway there before his senses began to fade. He fell back into the pillows in a dead faint.   
“Estel!” the queen cried.  
“He’s seizing.” Ioreth announced, noting the stiffening in his neck muscles, “Hold him down.” Faramir pushed Arwen aside, holding Aragorn’s arm flat to the mattress as his body began to convulse. He jerked and thrashed, a low groan issuing from his throat, his fists balled up in the mattress and his feet clawed at the white sheets.  
The chamber pot shattered as it slipped from Arwen’s hands, she stepped backwards, naked horror in her dark eyes, her back met the wall and she slid to the ground, paralyzed with fear.   
After a few agonizing minutes the tremors subsided and the king’s body relaxed in unconscious stillness into the bed. Ioreth looked up at the steward, worry etched clearly on her face, her eyes fell on Arwen and she gestured with her head for him to go to her.  
The queen was frozen in inarticulate grief, crumpled by the window, trembling and hyperventilating. Her eyes were round and bright like stars and her cheeks were white, her hands were clapped across her mouth and her hair was all askew.   
“Arwen?” Faramir knelt beside her, touching her shoulder and breaking her line of sight to the bed. She jerked back to the present, blinking at him, then noticing the broken pot.   
“I have to clean that up.” She whispered, sniffing.  
“It’s ok,” the steward caught her wrist. He reached out to touch her hair in a gesture of comfort. “the servants can take care of it.”  
Arwen nodded, sniffed, and leaned heavily into Faramir’s shoulder.   
“Is he going to be ok?” she looked up towards the healer.   
Ioreth placed her hands on her hips and narrowed her lips thoughtfully, “for now, he must sleep. And I must to the Houses of healing…”  
“Answer me!” Arwen snapped, squeezing tears from the corners of her eyes.  
“I don’t know.”


End file.
